


A Garden in the Flames

by crossfirehurricane



Series: Drabbles [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-11
Updated: 2016-09-16
Packaged: 2017-12-26 06:42:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 8,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/962808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crossfirehurricane/pseuds/crossfirehurricane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of drabbles, one-shots, random prompts of arbitrary GoT pairings (but most likely Pre-GoT). I've tagged only who/what I know there will be, but I will tag as I go along.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. La Belle Dame * Lyanna/Rhaegar

**Author's Note:**

> I found this idea when I was imagining Lyanna as a sort of femme fatale, which got me to thinking of Keats's 'La Belle Dame Sans Merci', which is the main source of inspiration here (also for GRRM, I imagine).
> 
> Enjoy!

Lyanna was Queen, and her throne was the king's lap.

People at court gossiped, as they are wont to do, of how the great King Rhaegar needed only to look into his lady wife's eyes to decide his ruling on a man's life, or death. They spoke of how she leaned to over to push back his silver hair and whisper her bidding into his ear, which he carried out indefinitely. They noticed the hand he rested on her hip, paid attention to how his face softened when he looked upon her, how she could twist his own emotions to sway one way or another. _Ruled by his lady wife,_ they said. _But how?_

_What did this woman do to him?_

In truth, she did nothing and everything at once. A smile from her ruby-red lips meant a grin on Rhaegar's chiseled lips, a slight frown from her meant a deep grimace from the king. Some tried to find the good in this, insisting that she must truly please him, that he truly loved her and aimed to please her, but none could ignore how a flick of her wrist meant a hard fist coming down on the accused.

Some declared her a witch, a sorceress with a bag of kisses that she threw across Rhaegar's brow, spilling into his mind. If it were true, than it began at Harrenhal, her bewitching him. All recalled how abruptly the prince joined the tourney, how he felled the best and emerged victorious. He had looked a thing of dreams that day, their silver-haired prince, and his tale should have been a fairytale for the ages. To crown Elia, a woman who already bore not one crown, but two, to receive a third through her gallant husband- even the most hardened of men found beauty in that!

Yet none would forget how Rhaegar's gaze was fixed on Lyanna from the moment he withdrew his helm. All remembered how he rode past his wife, sparing her no glance of apology, how he stopped in front of the Stark girl to lay the crown in her lap.

And all who saw it would recall the wolfish grin that graced her full lips, how the tip of a canine tooth was bared, as if it meant to sink into the heart of the silver prince.

It chilled them.

Oh, and the stories weaved regarding their love afterward! The spell she cast on him was not strong, they all assured themselves, that he needed to see her to love her. He returned so seamlessly to his life in King's Landing- his wife gave him a babe, a son, and he looked happy enough- But he left. Her left to find her, that sorceress, that faery, that siren. They say Lyanna leaned out her window and sang her witch's song, that it drifted on the breeze to Rhaegar's ear a thousand miles away, that he was drawn to her like a moth to a flame.

It was unnatural, as Rhaegar's strength on the Trident was unnatural. Robert Baratheon was no weakling- he was a fierce, raging bull of a man who wanted a woman who bewitched him too. Rhaegar was strong, but not ferocious; there was an elegance to him that might have left him dead in the waters, were it not for the faery who tossed a lover's dust in his eyes. True, both men had vitality, but Rhaegar had magic. Thus, he felled Robert, and as soon as his blood began to stain the waters, Rhaegar cried out, "Bring her to me!"

He did not need to specify who.

He did not stir until she arrived, babe in arms, and only then did he walk into the Red Keep, where his father sat on the Iron Throne. "We're saved!" the king had cried. But the She-Wolf put her mouth to Rhaegar's ear, and he drew his sword, sending the glimmering blade right through his own father's heart.

Lyanna smiled for him, and he smiled back with the eyes of man who was mad with love.

Days later, Princess Elia was sent home to Dorne. The new Queen saw her off at the gates of the Red Keep wearing the crown that once belonged to her- one that Rhaegar himself placed on her head.

None could understand how a man so great bent so easily to a mere woman.

People looked to explain it, as they were baffled by this frightening queen's power. They reduced Rhaegar to a baser man, one who seeked pleasures of the flesh that his wife did well to give him. Bawdy tales were told of the queen, of how her claws bled his back dry, how her legs wrapped around him as a snake would its prey, how her kisses drew out the life from him. _A man is a slave to a woman's wiles,_ they said.

But Rhaegar wasn't a slave to the pleasure between her thighs. He was simply a slave to her.

For it was she that he started a war for, it was she he killed his own father for. It was she that he cast away his faithful wife Elia, to vacate a spot for her in his bed, to erase any other woman in his life. They were all ghosts, flickering phantoms who passed him by, but Lyanna was a faery, glowing bright with the embers of her firey soul, hooking him in with a flash of those grey, grey eyes. She was a wisp, a wraith, a fleeting thing that he could not bear to lose. He bent to her will to keep her by his side, for what man would be mad enough to let go of a creature so magical?

Yet to the court, she was Wolf Queen, Dragon's Whore, and Sorceress. To Rhaegar, she was only Lyanna, the she-wolf of his heart.

With a touch, she dismantled him, tore down his defenses with no brutality, with only a soft breeze, a faint breath. With a kiss, she destroyed him, separated his mind from his body, sent a fire blazing from his head to his toes, until he grew dizzy with desire. 

Rhaegar knew that none understood his affections for her; not even Rhaegar could wholly explain why she affected him so. Perhaps if they ever buried a nose in her tumbling dark curls, inhaled her sweet scent, breathed in her essence, they would understand. Perhaps if they saw her naked form silhouetted by the night, how ethereal she looked then with moonlit motes about her, some would understand. Perhaps if they had been touched, just once, by just a tip of her finger, felt the burn that seared his skin, known how sweetly it stung, how terribly it ached after her touch disappeared how long it _lingered_...

But none needed to be so intimate. If they only looked into the grey pools of her eyes, they would drown in the depths of them. What looked so cold, so steel-like, melted once you fell in them. When Rhaegar looked at her, he felt warm. His blood stirred for her. His lips yearned for her. His hands trembled for her.

So when she sat herself down in his lap, he held her close- For he may be king, but it was her who ruled him.


	2. They Took You * Robert/Lyanna

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robert grieves over Lyanna's death.

_She's dead, Robert._

Another slam of the goblet. Another slosh of wine. Another gulp of the liquid that once tasted sweet. Now, it tasted like nothing at all. But with each cup, he sunk further and further into the warm recesses of his mind, where kind memories and cheerful thoughts prevailed over the dull agony that clutched at his soul.

It was hell he was feeling, but life he was living- what was the point of it without her?

_Lyanna, she..._

His hand trembled as he reached for pitcher again, until an unknown force sent it limp. His fingers shifted, gripping the edge of the table until his hand shook with effort. The goblet was plastered to his other hand still, becoming a part of his limb, just an extra digit, really. If he squeezed, as he squeezed the wood now, it may even break. Glass was delicate.

"Lyanna," Her name tumbled out of his lips as they had a thousand times in the past year, but not like before; not passionately desperate, not a groan of sexual ecstasy, not a battle-cry. It was a murmur, the softest whisper, and it hurt more than it did all the other times combined. "Lyanna, Lyanna."

Lyanna, sometimes Lya, wild-haired and grey-eyed, barefoot and small, dressed in trousers and a shirt. A neck that smelled like earth, and lips that tasted like fruit. Hands as rough as a rider's, cheeks as soft as down, hair as unkempt as a peasant's. Hearty laughs that shook her whole body, broad smiles that nearly seemed wicked, and a temper that matched his own. Oh, she was the woman for him, that firey she-wolf of a Stark, and gods be good, she was _meant_ to be his, always, always, from the start...

Robert felt the warm rivulet of blood trickle down his palm before he sensed the pain. He tore his hand away, pulling with it a chunk of splintered wood. For a while, he could only stare at the mahogany, marvel at it's broken form and the blood that stained it darker. Then he tossed it aside, and simply let the blood drip, drip, drip...

 _Maybe it will kill me,_ he hoped. _Maybe I'll die and find her waiting for me._ Then, he pleaded: _Please, let it kill me._

It simply wasn't how it was meant to be. Robert was a hero- was he not? He was a rebel, the symbol of change, the very image of unearthly rage unleashed on a tyrannical king. They sang _songs_ about him, damn it all, they scribed poems, rewrote history books, all with his name in it. Robert was promised riches, power, every wordly pleasure in the great wide world, but he wanted none of that, no. He thought it was always implied that he would get her, the woman, the reason for every swing of his warhammer- he did everything right! Robert fought and fucked and tore down a dynasty of dragonspawn, and gods be good, he killed _him_...

"Damn him!" He suddenly bellowed at the wall before him. "Damn that bastard! He took her from me! Twice- twice he took her, damn him." He felt his voice break, hot tears accompanying it, and Robert didn't know whether to sob or strike something, _anything_. A sudden urge came to him to fish Rhaegar out of his watery grave, all wrapped up in dented black armor that hid his smashed black heart, and raise him again. Let life be breathed back into him so he could get the pleasure of killing him again, and again, and again... They had to bring her back then, right? The gods, perhaps after the thousandth time, might trade him; they might take that bloodied body from his hands and drop a dark-haired woman in his arms instead. And she would flutter open those grey eyes, and smile- by the gods, that smile...

_I held her hand as she..._

Robert leaned on the table again, digging his cut hand into the edge so he may feel that throbbing ache, the pump of blood. Yet he could not feel anything. _Please kill me,_ he begged again, pushing his hand farther, deeper- nothing. The life had gone from him; yes, his body was there, his blood spilled, but Robert was not alive. He was empty. Lyanna's phantom hand had reached inside and pulled the last of his soul out of him, left a hole where she should be, and smells and sounds and false memories.

When his hand flew across to strike the pitcher to the floor, Robert regretted it immediately. Wine covered the floor in irretrievable drops, dark little pools that could not be drunk, that could not _make_ him drunk. He needed wine now, more than ever, he needed it. Something to wash away her face, and her hair, something to cleanse him of the thoughts that haunted him now, for if he spent a single moment pondering it sober, he knew he simply couldn't stand it. He would die- surely, he would die, for seeing her face in his mind already wrapped ice cold fingers around his heart, and squeezed...

_Please, let me die._

But the gods were cruel. They killed the ones who should live, and kept that ones that should die. Worse, they killed the ones who deserve to die, but only once- they only allow the worst to die once.

Phantom arms wrapped around his middle; a soft cheek pressed to his back, and a faint body too. The smell of the godswood rose up to his nose, tickling it as it had many moons ago. He could turn around in her arms now, press her to his chest, cover her with kisses until she gave that laugh of hers that thrilled him to his bones, sent life rushing through his veins.

But Robert knew what he would find if he did, but he did it anyways. He turned around, and looked down, where he found his feet and no one elses. Still, he reached out with his bloodied hand to where her face was supposed to be, stroked an invisible brow, pulled at a ghostly lip.

"Come back to me," he croaked, his vision turning bleary with tears, his bloodied hand becoming a soft red blur. "Lyanna..."

She did not answer. She never would. But still, he would call her name, just to hear it, just to taste it on his tongue and revel in it, if only briefly.

 

It was her name he moaned on his wedding night. He knew he did- there was no doubt in his mind he did. So it did not come as a surprise when his pretty new wife asked him who she was, that woman whose name he said into her golden hair.

"Lyanna," he answered flatly, unabashed, as if it were a normal thing to cry out another woman's name during a fuck. But he was already drunk, and he had no bearings to be feel embarrassed. 

"She's dead," his wife blurted out, her face turning red. Anger suited her- brought out the green in her eyes, though Robert would rather them grey.

"Aye," Robert replied with a cold voice. "She's dead."

 _And I'm here,_ her eyes seemed to say. _Why not me? Why not my name?_

But why would he say any another name? It was the only one worth saying.

He only wished she could hear him.


	3. In the Sight of Gods * Jaime/Lyanna

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A sudden encounter with a pond changes Jaime's mind regarding the Queen Lyanna.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't see this pairing coming but here it is!

Jaime pushed back another branch, but the thorny thing returned to hit him in the face. He tried to recover quickly, to brush off nature's slight without embarassment, but the queen's loud laugh proved his efforts futile.

"Ser Jaime Lannister, Kingsguard,Kingslayer, and bested by a tree," she chimed, a wicked smile arising to her ruby red lips. "What will your father say?"

"That I had every right to kill you," he grumbled under his breath, disgruntled. Lyanna always seemed to enjoy seeing him suffer, as if punishing him for following her around. It wasn't as if Jaime did so for his own pleasure; the king, her husband Robert, had so graciously assigned him to guard her by day. Jaime had feigned grace when the "honor" was bestowed upon him, but gods be good- if he knew what trouble that damnable woman would put him through, he'd have shed his white armor to take the black instead.

"Now, now, Ser Jaime," she said, still taking steps forward through the thick godswood. "Do not look so upset. You are in the sight of the gods- you ought to smile." She followed it up with another brash laugh that Jaime swore frightened birds within three miles of it.

She continued walking forward with no clear aim, her bare feet lightly crunching leaves that littered the ground. Seeing her now, with brambles in her thick brown hair, dirty soles, and a dress she pulled up nearly to her knees, she looked much less a queen and more like a madwoman. _Yes, a madwoman- that's what she is,_ Jaime thought bitterly. But her own madness nearly drove him insane; the woman would disappear from her chambers early in the morning to take rides that lasted hours, and leave Jaime scrambling to find her before Robert inquired as to where she was. Other times she'd emerge after having slept in the entire morning, dressed in man's clothing, shirt, trousers, boots, everything, to go swing a sword at a wooden dummy as he melted in his armor under the sweltering sun. Then, most distastefully, there were other times when she dragged him all over King's Landing to visit various and odd institutions where she would mingle with the underbelly of the city, and comfortably so, as if she belonged among the peasantry and not in the king's bed.

Very little about this woman appealed to him; yes, she was terribly beautiful, as his fellow knights liked to say over and over, yet none so fair as his dear Cersei. And none so enchanting- she was too wild, frustratingly adventerous, exceedingly volatile, and a dangerous siren- she had lured Rhaegar to his death, and she would surely lead Robert to his.

Jaime couldn't stand her.

"Ah, here we are!" She trilled, stopping suddenly before a clearing in the woods. He nearly ran into her as she did so, but quickly took steps back to stay away. "I found this place the other morning. Isn't it lovely?"

Jaime looked past her with flat eyes, catching sight of what she saw. It was a mere pond, no more than 5 feet in width, with clear water that sparkled wherever the spotted light that streamed through the trees hit the still surface. It was nothing remarkable; just a tiny body of water and nothing more.

Yet it thrilled her.

"The water looks so pleasant," she said, leaning down at the water's edge to run her fingers through it. "It is!" She cried, grinning widely. "It is cool and clean, and so very beautiful..."

Jaime's eyes fixed passively on his strange queen, watching her as her fingertips rippled the water, disturbing it from its long sleep. Then she rose again, and twisted an arm behind her back to fumble for the laces that held her gown together. Jaime's brows furrowed as her watched her wet fingers latch onto a loose ribbon and pull the bow apart. The dress swiftly unraveled, recoiling like a spring having long been pressed. Curiosity turned into horror as she slipped the dress off her shoulders and bared her back to him.

"M-my queen," he stuttered, struggling push words past his dry lips. "What are you...?"

She only turned her head and flashed him a mischievious smile before wriggling out of the garment and standing nude before him. "I'm going for a swim, Ser Jaime," she answered cooly, as if she were announcing breakfast, before lowering herself gracefully into the water.

It only reached her breasts, half-concealing her nipples that visibly hardened upon entering. Jaime gaped for a brief while at his naked queen before gathering his wits to where he could speak again. "This is the godswood, my lady," he said in useless protest. "You cannot do that before the gods, i-it's, it's- it's blasphemous." In truth, Jaime didn't care one whit for the gods and their prickly sensibilities, but he also did not take well to the notion that someone might stumble upon them in such a compromising situation. And knowing the fool that Robert is, it would be Jaime's head on a pike.

She only laughed in response, though Jaime did not cringe. He could only watch that lithe body be swept up in the waters that carressed her like a tender lover.

"You speak piously to the wrong woman," she returned, raising her arms above her head in a lazy stretch, revealing the whole of her pert breasts. "Rhaegar fucked me in my godswood- under the heart tree, no less." Then she darted underwater, emerging seconds later drenched entirely with little beads of water dripping off her lips and sliding down her breastbone.

Jaime was fascinated; every movement she made in the still waters sent ripples of heat coursing through him, the bulk of it settling at his groin. The sunlight that speckled through the trees reflected off the water that settled on her like a thin veil, her body glistening in response. It felt wrong to watch her, yet not in the sense that she was his queen and he her knight; he hadn't felt anything so strong, so purely erotic in any woman's presence save for Cersei. Such emotion was reserved only for Cersei, for the golden lioness of his heart. Yet here he was, studying Lyanna's slender form through the glassy surface, and wondering what it would feel like to hold those small round breasts in his hands.

Lyanna waded to the water's edge, leaning her arms on the grass to rest her chin atop her hands. She grinned up at him, flashing her grey eyes, and crooned, "Care to join me, Ser Jaime?"

What a wild creature she was! Seven hells, Jaime had never known a woman so witch-like, so reckless, so free. His Cersei only wished to have half her spirit, which seemed to smoulder through Lyanna and light her up from the inside. She was like a flame submerged in that pond- impossible, yet endlessly enthralling. Hypotized by her, Jaime murmured thoughtlessly, "How can he handle you?"

"Robert?" She laughed as if some terribly hilarious jest had been told, throwing her head back and sent drenched dark tresses streaming down her back. "I handle myself. He is merely my husband."

The muscles in her arm fluttered as she pushed herself out of the water and onto her knees on the wet grass. She lifted her arms to wring dry her thick hair, before tossing it carelessly over her shoulder. Jaime could only watch the water run drown the flat of her middle to disappear between her thighs, each drip sending his heart thumping, thumping, thumping.

Her gray eyes fixed to somewhere off to the left, and for a moment Jaime panicked, fearing that someone had discovered them- but the feeling passed as quickly as it came, as the need to gaze at her superceded his care for his own well-being.

"There is a pretty spot of sun over there," she mused to him, or no one at all. "I think I may go lay there and dry off." She got to her feet, and cast her gaze back to him, pinning him with a look that sent a shiver coursing through him. "Do remember, good ser," she said, wetting her already moist lips. "It is your duty to guard me. Do not keep your eyes off me for a moment- that is an order."

Then she laughed that musical laugh, and turned to bathe in the sun.

A sudden smile crept up to Jaime's lips. He would keep his eyes on her. By the gods, he'd keep them on her if it killed him- and it most likely would.


	4. Drunk On You * Robert/Lyanna

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robert is drunk and happy when he holds his lady love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been having serious Robert/Lyanna feels.

"Yer so beautiful, Lya," he slurred again for what might have been the sixth time. Robert was drunk- irretrievably drunk, one might add, from the feast he held in honor of the seed that had quickened in Lyanna's stomach. He was quite pleased at himself for performing what must have been a painstaking task, and drank merrily as a reward to himself. Then he fell into bed beside her, wrapped his arms about her, and murmured compliments into her hair. It was strangely charming at first; now it was irritating.

Lyanna sighed and turned in his arms, coming face to face with him. His breath reeked of wine, and his eyes drooped with obvious inebriation. He was much beyond repair, her dim husband. "I know, Robert," she said, hardly containing her irritation. "I'm so very beautiful." Had Robert been sober, he'd have laughed, saying in jest that she was a confident woman indeed, perhaps she'd take that boldness to bed with him?

Not tonight.

"You are," he agreed vigorously as if this were a new assertion. "So beautiful." He pressed a sloppy kiss to her temple, and squeezed her tighter.

There was something strangely endearing about his eagerness; an element existed where it was as if he were seeing her for the first time, that this was their first babe together. But then, it just may be. Jon had been her first child, but whether or not he was Robert's seed, she would never know. It had been a mere two weeks between the time she laid with Rhaegar in the godswood and her wedding night with Robert. Robert was praised profusely for getting her with child from their first time; Lyanna let him have his glory.

"Go to sleep, Robert," Lyanna said, biting back a smile when he went to kiss her lips, missed, and kissed the corner of her mouth instead. "You're terribly drunk."

Ignoring her, he began to speak of his own accord. "Y'know what's the prettiest thing 'bout you?" He asked, slinking a hand up her stomach. "Your teats," he said this casually, as if he were talking about the weather with a farmer, before resting a hand on the prettiest thing about her and giving a squeeze.

Lyanna laughed, finding his uncouth gesture terribly amusing. She didn't resist him; she nestled into his touch, finding comfort in that large hand. "That's it then? Not my eyes, or my hair, or my smile, but my teats?" She said it in jest, but Robert, in his intoxication, took it to heart.

"Those things are great too," he slurred, his s's meshing together. "But I do like your teats. They're so... so..." Lyanna thought he may drift off to sleep, as his eyelids drooped to near-closing, but he was roused again by some unseen force. He blinked at her as if surprised to find her there, then recalled his purpose, and continued, "So pretty."

"What a master of words you are," Lyanna said with a grin, tilting her head up to kiss his chin. "Though I always thought you preferred your teats larger." Large enough to fill his enormous hands, at least. Lyanna's hardly filled his palms, a small as they were, and she knew very well he'd handled bigger.

"No, no," Robert said lazily, shaking his head. "I like yours. But with the babe now they'll get bigger... I like that too." His thumb brushed her nipple, turning it stiff under his touch. He laughed suddenly, as if amused by her body's reaction, and shifted his hand to fondle her other breast. It was like a boy of five-and-ten feeling teats for the first time, fumbling with them like they were territory to be explored. Lyanna didn't mind it. She liked his hands.

"What else do you like about me?" Lyanna asked softly, putting her lips to his collar, curling further into his chest. His hand left her breast then, moving to find purchase at the small of her back, pressing her to him.

"Everything," he said with an honesty that stunned her. "I love everything about you." He didn't sound drunk, didn't slur, didn't whisper. His voice was as clear as day, as warm as a summer afternoon.

"N-Not everything, surely," Lyanna stammered, a blush rising to her cheeks. "You dislike my temper. You hate that I shout at you, for you always shout back." Their arguments were notoriously explosive. Everyone who lived at Storm's End knew of their firey tempers, of their pugnacious natures, and of their fights that drove them to other beds until jealousy and yearning brought them back to each others'. It was as if they took other lovers in order to realize that those various servingmaids and squires were nothing compared to their own spouses. They never learned, of course, so they were always making up, just as loudly as they would fight.

"Ah, your temper's fun," Robert said, his hand rubbing circles on her back. "Yer beautiful when you're angry."

"I cannot say the same for you, I'm afraid. You look quite ugly when you're angry," Lyanna returned with a smile. Robert let out a laugh that shook his wide shoulders before becoming still, nestling his nose in her hair.

"Thank the gods I fell in love with an honest woman," Robert murmured into her dark curls. "Thank the gods I married her."

His touch was warm through her thin nightgown, lulling her to sleep. He kept seeming to try to pull her further and further into him, until he surrounded her like a stalwart, his arms protecting her like a wall might do. Their legs intertwined with each other, their stomachs touched, and together they breathed each other in until the dust of sleep pervaded their limbs.

"I love you, Lyanna," Robert drawled in a voice thick with drowsiness and drink. "You 'n your pretty little teats," he added with a smile before relaxing around her and dozing off.

"I love you too, my sweet lord," Lyanna said into his chest, giving a little chuckle. Strange how not 2 years ago she cringed at the thought of loving a dim-witted brute like himself, when there was silver prince with a golden tongue who could thrill her with his mind. But she did, somehow it happened- she came to love her crude giant of a husband, and when she said those words, she meant it too.


	5. Violent Kisses * Robert/Lyanna

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick drabble to get me writing...

They were best after a fight.

After they he shouted and she screamed, after she beat her fists against him and he gripped her wrists, both doing so with unforgiving strength. He would drink cup after cup as she snarled at him and ordered that he stop, by the gods, just _stop_.

After they took leave of each other for few days, each one avoiding the other, two snakes slinking by in hopes that they were too silent to be noticed. They always noticed, though, always.

Then they would find each other as they had began: hot with passion, teeth and claws bared, only he would push into her while grunting apologies in her ear while she gasped his name, her nails writing 'sorry' into his back, marks that would remain until the next time they had something to fight about.

Of course, by then, they would have forgotten what they were arguing about in the first place.


	6. Enough * Arthur/Elia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur didn't ask for much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> drabble drabble drabble...

If it had been Arthur, it would have been enough.

If they dropped a child, a son, in his arms that looked just like him, it would have been enough.

If they said she would never give him another child again, he would have turned to her and said "Thank you- that's enough."

And how not? What Elia lacked in health and fertility she made up for in her sweet smiles, her sharp wit, her intelligent eyes. There would still be her soft touches, her shy kisses, placed in the corner of his mouth just so, and her thin arms wrapped around his waist. There would still be her kind laugh, her long, thick eyelashes batting when she grew embarrassed, and her darling way of speaking, in tones so slight yet so strong all at once- just like her, he supposed.

But none of this was ever for him. It was always for Rhaegar, a man who could not be satisfied with the bare minimum, one who required what he believed he was entitled to. How she tried to sway him! Arthur saw more than once tears clinging to the ends of her eyelashes, threatening to spill but never doing so, as she'd always wipe them away first.

Arthur wanted to hold her small body to his chest and whisper, "Please, princess, that's enough."


	7. The Marriage of Wild Things * Oberyn/Lyanna

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> what might be Lyanna and Oberyn's wedding night.

When he enters her marriage chambers entirely nude and with a sort of cruel confidence Lyanna had never seen in a man before, the first thing he does is call her a slut.

"So what did you do to get him to give you that crown of flowers, you little slut?" is precisely what he asks. "Did you fuck him?" When he puts his long finger inside her and is met with a thin barrier, he sneers. "So you didn't fuck him. Did you suck his cock then, like a whore?"

Lyanna strikes him across the face, and he growls at the affront, those dark eyes of him burning with a warning fire. His hand pins the offending wrist to the headboard, then leans in close enough to kiss her, though he doesn't.

"You'll watch that hand with me or I'll have it tied to to the bedpost," he hisses, but he is smiling.

"Or perhaps I'll tie yours," Lyanna returns, digging her nails into the thin skin of his wrist, where his finger still settled inside her.

"Really?" he asks, his breath warm on her lips. His finger pulls out of her to drag up some inches above to the place septas said never to touch. But it felt so _good_. "How about now?"

Lyanna gasps and suddenly feels very feverish. "Do you want to know what I did to get him to give me that crown?" she asks breathlessly.

Oberyn does not nod, but his eyes say yes.

"This." She kisses his mouth in that long, slow way she knows drove men mad. Her hand is released from the headboard to go to the back of his neck where it gets lost in his black hair, and he pulls her to his chest so she can claw at his back and he can dig his nails into her thigh.

They growl and hiss, but they also howl and kiss.


	8. Bright Wolves * Oberyn/Lyanna

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oberyn and Lyanna in a (maybe?) sequel to the previous chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> getting my writing juices flowing. enjoy!

She loved how they looked together, sprawled and lazy in bed.

She curled into his side, her head on his shoulder, and her pale leg was folded over his bronzed middle, milk white on chesnut brown. Only a few hours in the Dornish sun would turn him a shade darker, while Lyanna may spend days and receive nothing more than a fresh crop of freckles across her nose and cheeks. She was not resentful of this; Oberyn would kiss each one, warming her from inside out instead.

Long fingers pressed into her side, on ocassion moving up and down, scorching her skin and leaving it tingling after. Her own finger traced patterns on his chest, pictures of spears and suns and wolves and roses. She wondered if Oberyn could feel them and make them out; perhaps he was guessing in his head now, but Oberyn didn't like guessing. He liked truths, and was always able to find them with those sharp black eyes that peeled away at words to find the heart underneath. He liked for all to lay bare, from words to women, and grew disgruntled when it wasn't.

"I want your advice on something," he grumbles suddenly, still half asleep. He did like to ask her advice, something that no man had ever extended to her before. But things were different in Dorne. Women shared power with their men.

"What is it?" Lyanna responds, tilting her head up to look upon his sleeping face. His brows were furrowed and his lips in a slight sneer, looking frustrated even in a moment of peace. She grew used to that face.

"What shall we name it?"

Lyanna grins. "I have already decided," she confesses.

"Have you now?" he responds, some of the tension in his brow disappearing.

"Ariella, if it is a girl; Torrhen for a boy."

He wrinkles his nose. "I don't like Torrhen," he admits.

"I don't quite care, my love."

"You don't?" He turns his head, tilting down his chin to meet her eye and bump noses. "You wound me," he murmurs in a husky voice, sending a shiver down her back.

"Not yet," she says, before taking his lower lip between her teeth. He groans, but whether it is from pain or pleasure, she did not know. But he likes it, and pushes his lips to hers for a proper kiss. A fire steals through her body at the contact, and her hand goes straight to the back of his neck to pull him closer.

"Torrhen is the King Who Knelt," Oberyn says after they pull away.

"But still a king."

"It's the ugliest name I've ever heard out of the North."

"I like it."

He takes pause at this, black eyes searching hers. "I hope it's a girl, then."

"Not I."

He lets out a short laugh, then turns on his side, pushing her leg off, and placing a hand on the back of her thigh. "Maybe we can have both," he whispers into her mouth before covering it again.

Lyanna wishes they would never have to leave their bed.


	9. Neighbors * Robert/Lyanna

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robert and Lyanna are seriously terrible neighbors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little drabble...

Robert Baratheon and Lyanna Stark were the worst type of neighbors to have.

They were the type that stumbled through their apartment doors at three in the morning, drunk and running into things and causing a general ruckus before they fell into bed. They were the ones who fought as if no one else lived on their floor, screaming and shouting at the top of their lungs, throwing objects, any objects, at the walls and at each other, not ceasing their quarrel for a moment when something shattered or broke. They hosted parties in their tiny-ass apartment where the beer flowed like water and the music shook the whole damn floor. They were _that_ couple with that _bloody_ squeaky bed that wobbled on its legs, so that when things grew hot and heavy in the bedroom, the neighbors to their right would hear the thump, thump, thump of the headboard hitting the wall in time to their activity and _every_ neighbor on _every_ side heard that damnable, high pitched squeaking all through the damn night.

What was worse is that Lyanna was loud. Like, _really_ loud. Like oh god Robert please more, more, more, harder, oh fuck me, yes, yes, baby right there loud. Like moaning loud enough to wake you in the middle in the night wondering who was dying loud.

She was that fucking loud.

But God help those neighbors on the right who had to hear her shit and thumping of the headboard and that damned squeaking 'cause when the mood was right Robert didn't bother with whispering dirty, he _talked_ dirty, pratically shouting shit like "You like that, don't ya baby? You like it when I give it to ya good? One hundred percent man right here, baby, damn, you're lucky to have me!" The last part was totally debatable though, cause Lyanna Stark was hot as shit and she could probably do way better if she wanted. Hell, forget "probably". She _could_ do better, and she totally fucking knew it too. The girl was only humoring that lug.

That apartment on the right, number 713 empties out all the time, like the garbagemen once a week, every week. He was making money off people breaking their leases, sure, but that empty apartment was being filled and unfilled at a rate faster than Lyanna's cunt after Robert had been cut off for a week.

He couldn't damn well ask the horny pair to leave either; she was the goddamn heiress to Stark Co and he was the fucking president of Baratheon Enterprises, and while those two had cash up the wazoo they chose to live in a small as shit apartment with thin walls and a creaky bed (and a bathroom whose acoustics are great, he's been told) that wasn't even situated in the nice part of town.

The two were fucking crazy.

So, he made up for lost cash by dropping a few extra numbers on their rent for shit like "convenience charges" and "excessive laundry usage" and "pet fees" even though they didn't own a damn pet. It isn't like the two would notice anyway. They were too busy fucking each other's brains out to take a second look at their rent.

But he felt he was obligated to warn people if they chose as to live on that goddamn nice top floor with the plush carpets and floral drapes that the only room available was 713, and it was cursed.

"Cursed with what?" they would all ask.

"Cursed with the ghosts of horny past, present, and future, that's what," he replied, and those poor fools would laugh, roll their eyes, and say they've had worse.

They all thought it was a joke. They always do.

But at least he could say "I warned ya" when he points out clause 4, line 12, that clearly states that "breaking a lease before the lease has expired will result in a monetary penalty which includes rent charges for the remaining months along with any other charges the landlord saw fit". He loved that last part. Saw fit.

Yeah, they get shocked and upset, but they eventually pay up or he'd have his lawyers on their ass, chasing them from coast to coast. But they paid. They always paid. Anything was better than living next door to two rich horny fuckers and having to hear them call each other baby all damn night and to hear and feel that thump thump thump of the headboard, frown and look at their partner and realizes they'll never have sex that great, but also holy shit that woman can _moan_.

He really oughta call the couple down for dinner at his place sometime, thank 'em for doing what they do and who they do because he was making bucketloads off them. They were doing him a favor, really, and with all the money he skimmed off them he likely should pay it forward lest he go to Hell or something.

But he'd do that later. He had a three o'clock for some newlyweds who wanted to see that fancy top floor because it's be great for "starting a family".

 

He could hardly supress a snort over the phone. Yeah fucking right it's great for starting a family. The neighbors can show you how.


	10. The First Promise * Benjen & Lyanna

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before the Tower of Joy, Lyanna extracts a different promise from a different brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> something I posted on tumblr that I'll post here now...

"You can’t tell anyone.” Lyanna had that look in her eye that they say his mother would have when she was set on something. Benjen does not know what his mother may have looked like with such a look, but if it was anything like Lyanna’s, it must have been fearsome.

"Why not?" he asked, disappointed. He told her this for a reason. Because Lyanna always encouraged him and ruffled his hair and held his hand. “Can I tell Brandon?”

"No, don’t tell Brandon. He’s too stupid."

"Ned?"

"Ned would tell father."

"What’s wrong with that?"

"Father will make you stop."

Benjen frowned. He didn’t want to stop. He liked closing his eyes and becoming a raven, flying high in the sky, or sniffing Winterfell’s cold ground as a dog with no master. Benjen could stop being the little brother for a while. Benjen could be whatever he wanted.

"I guess you’re right," he admits, dejected. He lets go of Lyanna’s hand and frowns off to the side.

"Of course I’m right," Lyanna replies haughtily, throwing herself back onto the bed. "Besides, now that you’ve told me, we’re even. You know my secret, and now I know yours."

Benjen’s eyes trail to the floorboards beneath Lyanna’s writing desk, where all her letters from the prince hid. Her secret was bigger than his, Benjen thinks. But she made him promise to keep it, and Benjen never broke a promise. Lyanna said that made him honorable.

"I wonder if there’s a word for what you do?" Lyanna muses, chewing her lower lip. "You’re not a shapeshifter, right? Because if you were a shapeshifter, your body would change too, wouldn’t it?"

"I bet Maester Walys knows. He has all those books, after all."

Lyanna suddenly sits up straight and gives him that look again- mother’s look.

"You must promise not to tell anyone, Benjen," she warns, reaching to clutch his hand again. "Promise me, Ben."

Benjen sighs, then smiles.

"I promise, Lya."


	11. Wake Up * Lyanna & Jon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Written because of Feels™, a post-ADWD mock Jon chapter, featuring Lyanna. R+L=J, obvs."
> 
> That was the official caption on the original tumblr post, where I first posted this fic, anyways. I have quite a few tumblr fics that never made it onto this collection, so I'll be uploading them all here! Find me at my tumblr @lyannas :)

“Wake up, Jon. Wake up, it’s not time yet.”

A woman’s voice was calling to him from the darkness. He could hear her shuffling, moving around him, sighing.

“Come now, Jon. I know you’re stronger than that. Wake up.”

Her voice was proud and young and seemed on the edge of a jape. Was she laughing at him? Smiling? What did he look like? He didn’t want to embarrass himself in front of a lady. Not again.

He stirs, blinking his eyes to find himself in a forest, of all places, his body resting in the grass. Snow fell in small flakes, but did not touch the ground. They clung to him, however, melted on his skin. He glances around, spotting the woman who spoke to him. She sat on an altar– an altar of the old gods, judging by the heart tree behind her. The eyes of the white bark wept crimson.

_I know that heart tree. That’s Winterfell’s tree._

Which meant this was Winterfell’s godswood. What was he doing here? The last thing he remembered was the Wall, a hundred wounds gone numb, and the biting cold. But there was no heavy snows here, no sound of any other life but his own and that woman’s. The godswood had always been quiet, but not _this_ quiet.

He looks to her again, sitting up to examine her. She could be no more than sixteen, with wide grey eyes and freckles on her youthful face. Her hair was a lovely dark color, a color like his own, falling in thick waves. She was a pretty girl; not a terrible beauty, but she was _pretty_. Her dress, however, was covered with blood.

“Are you alright? You’re bleeding,” He managed to say in a hoarse whisper, trying not to gape at the blood that covered the lower half of her dress. It was not even a dress, in truth, only a thin shift. _She must be cold_ , he noted. He reached for the clasp of the cloak on his shoulder.

“This _is_ blood, but I’m not bleeding. You have to be living to bleed. You, however…” She giggled childishly, then brings a blue rose to her nose, smiling into it. 

Jon looked down at his body, jaw dropping as he saw gaping wounds, blood staining his jerkin. When he pressed a hand to one cut, blood came away on his palm. It was wet, still pulsing.

“I’m bleeding,” he said, dumbfounded.

“You are. Thank the gods.” She came off the altar, moving to kneel beside him. “Do you remember what happened?”

Did he remember? He wasn’t sure. His head hurt just trying to think of it.

“It’s no matter,” she assured him, sensing his confusion. “Once you wake, you will remember. Which is more than can be said about your memory of me.”

She smiled again, this one a sadder one than the one she had on before. _Where have I seen her?_ She was familiar, so familiar. He’s seen her in dreams before– he’s seen her in reality. The old, musty smell of the crypts wafts up to his nose. Recognition hits him with a jolt.

“You’re Lyanna. My father’s sister,” he said. Yes, he remembered now. The same face that smiled at him now stared solemnly in stone beneath Winterfell. But… “You’re dead. Am I dead too?”

Before she answered, she reached out to him, pushing back a stray lock of hair from his eyes. Her touch was gentle, comforting; her eyes were kind, understanding, and _hurt_. Who hurt her? Did he?

“I already told you that the dead do not bleed,” she explained, though it seemed to him that her patience was running thin. “Now don’t you want to know why I’m here?”

Why? He hadn’t considered. None of this made sense anyways. He was dreaming; and he would wake up. Dreams meant nothing.

“Dreams mean everything,” she says, surprising him. “’I’m not a Stark,’ you said, as your legs forced you into the crypts. ‘I don’t belong here.’ How can that be true, when your mother rests there in waiting?”

_My mother?_ “What would my mother be doing in the crypts at Winterfell? That’s where Starks go to rest.”

“Come now, I know you’re smarter than that. How many women rest in those crypts?” 

“Just one. Just you.” What was she trying to say? “But you’re not my mother.” Eddard Stark may have borne the dishonor of fathering a bastard, but incest– that was impossible. It couldn’t be.

She gives an unladylike snort, shaking her head. “Don’t be stupid, Jon,” she chided in the same way Arya would. There was no fire behind her words, just a minor irritation. The thought of Arya makes him smile. _She looks like her_. “I did not beg the gods to meet you so you may think that I would lie with my own brother. I shall leave that practice to the Targaryens.”

Targaryen. Yes, there was an attachment there. Rhaegar Targaryen, who kidnapped and raped her, who started a war to bring her back, who was smashed on the Trident, where the rubies on his breastplate still swam. He feels it now, the crash of a hammer on his chest, and for a moment he loses his breath.

“You are piecing it together now. Good.” She was still smiling sadly as she squeezed his shoulder. “What fools youth makes of us. Had I the chance to return to my time, I would do it so differently. Yet, if I did… You would not be here.” She musses his hair the way he would muss Arya’s. “A life for a life. I paid mine for yours. Just as well.”

He looks at her, his aunt turned mother, and struggles to find the right words. How many years did he sit and wonder, where his mother was, if she was alive, if she was a whore or a lady, if she ever even wanted him? How many times did he look upon Lady Catelyn as she doted on her children, swallowing jealousy like bitter bile, wishing that there was someone to do the same for him?

But this… If she was his mother, than that meant his father–

_This is a dream, it must be a dream_ , he insisted to himself. _But dreams mean everything_.

“Oh, look. You’re waking up,” she notes, sounding cheery but still looking forlorn. He glances down in time to see thick, black smoke curling out from his wounds.

“I have so many questions,” he says to her, tongue feeling heavy in his mouth. “Please, don’t go. Not yet.” He reaches out to grab her hand as he rises.

“Sweet Jon, it’s not me who’s leaving,” she said in a voice soft and sad. A tear rolls down her cheek; he wants to wipe it away. It stung to see her sad. “ _You’re_ leaving. But that’s alright. It’s not our time to be together– not yet.” She bends down, tucking the blue rose in her hand behind his ear.

“Please,” he said again, his voice fading. “I need to– But _why_ –” Her slim hand slips out of his.

“Because the gods willed it,” she answered, though it was no answer at all. “Our gods. The old gods. Bastard, prince– to them it is all the same. Yet how many people can say they’ve been both?” Her impish grin is the last thing he sees before she turns on her heel, the skirt of her bloody shift flowing behind her.

“Lyanna– Mother, _wait_ ,” he calls out, rising on wobbly legs to try and make chase. But his feet are planted in the ground, long roots wrapping around his ankles, tugging him down into the earth. He was sinking fast, dirt up to his knees already.

_Promise me_ , he hears her voice whispering to him, though she was nowhere to be seen. _Promise me you’ll keep him safe._

“Keep who safe? Tell me!” The earth was up to his shoulders, soon to wrap around his throat. But he needed to know. He needed to hear her.

_Promise me, Ned_.

“I promise,” Jon said just before dirt filled his mouth. Just before the world went black, grass tickled his cheek, feeling like a mother’s kiss.


End file.
